The Star-Chamber: An Historical Romance, Volume 2

But what means this sudden change in his demeanour? Why does he start and stop, and look inquiringly towards the back of the gallery? Whom does he discern amongst that bevy of beauties? Can it be Aveline? And if so, how comes she there?

As he pauses, all eyes are fixed upon her towards whom his gaze is directed. There is no difficulty in detecting the object of his regards, for her attire is simpler than that of all the glittering dames around her, and of a sadder hue. Her confusion also betrays her. She would not be seen by him she came to see. She would muffle up her features, but it is too late; and she is not only fully exposed to his view, but to that of a hundred other curious eyes. Though many a high-born damsel marvels at the young knight's insensibility to her own superior attractions, none can deny that the unknown maiden is exquisitely beautiful, and demands are eagerly made as to who she may be. No one can answer—and no clue is given by her companion, for the elderly dame by whom she is attended, and who resembles a duenna, is likewise unknown to all.

As soon as Sir Jocelyn recovers his surprise, he requests a favour from the lady of his love, and she cannot refuse him—for immediately all the dames in front of the gallery move aside, to let her advance.

With her pale cheeks crimsoned with blushes, and her dark eyes flashing with mingled emotions of shame and pleasure, Aveline steps forward—and having no other favour to bestow upon her knight, she gives him her kerchief, which he presses to his lips, and then with a graceful salutation moves forward on his course. This is no time for explanation—and he must be content with his happiness, without inquiring how it has been procured for him.

The incident, however, has been generally noticed, and causes a good deal of speculation and talk amongst the female portion of the assemblage. There is one individual, however, of the opposite sex, who witnesses it with sentiments different from those by which most other observers are affected. This is Sir Giles Mompesson. He, it appears, has not been unaware of Aveline's presence at the jousts, though he did not anticipate its revelation in this manner to Sir Jocelyn; and a bitter smile crosses his lips, as he watches the brief interview between the pair. He cares not what transports they indulge in now—nor what hopes they form for the future. He promises himself that he will effectually mar their bliss!

CHAPTER XIII

The Felon Knight

A few more bounds of his steed brought Sir Jocelyn to the royal gallery, where he dismounted, and leaving his steed in charge of an esquire, ascended the stairs in company with the marshals of the field, and presently found himself in the presence of the King. James received him very graciously. On the right of the monarch stood the Conde de Gondomar, who smiled on his protégé as he approached, and glanced at a silver coffer full of diamonds, pearls, emeralds, amethysts, and other precious stones, borne by an attendant in the gorgeous livery of the Marquis of Buckingham.

"We greet ye as victor, Sir Jocelyn," said James, as the young knight made a profound obeisance to him; "and it rejoices us to say ye hae demeaned yourself honourably and fairly in the field. How say ye, Sirs?" he added to the marshals and others. "Shall not the prize of the day be adjudged to Sir Jocelyn?"

"It must be so, of right, your Majesty," replied the foremost of them. "A better course at the ring could not be run than Sir Jocelyn hath performed, nor could greater 'vantage be gained in the jousts than he hath obtained over the Marquis of Buckingham. All has been done by him in accordance with the rules of honour, and without fraud or supercherie.

"Enough, gentlemen," said James. "Count, ye hae won your wager; and as to you, Sir Jocelyn, ye hae proved yourself a very mirror of chivalry—exemplar antiquoe fortitudinis et magnanimitatis—on the pattern of Bayard, the knight without fear and without reproach, and the like of whom we scarce expected to see in these latter days. You are right weel entitled to the prize ye hae gained, and which his Excellency so honourably assigns to you."

"With your Majesty's permission, I will add the diamond clasp which I staked against the Marquess's casket of gems," said De Gondomar, "and will beseech Sir Jocelyn to wear it as a testimony on my part of his merit as a cavalier. It is scarcely too much to say for him, after his recent brilliant achievements, that he takes rank amongst the foremost of the distinguished knights encircling your Majesty's throne."

"He takes rank as the first and best," cried James, emphatically; "since he hath overcome Buckingham, who till this day hath held the chief place among our chivalry."

"Your Majesty overwhelms me by your commendations," replied Sir Jocelyn; "and I can only say, in reply, that my best energies shall be devoted to your service, whenever and howsoever called upon. As to your Excellency's gift," he added to De Gondomar, who had unfastened the glittering clasp and presented it to him, "I shall ever guard it, as a devotee in your own sunny land of Spain would the most precious relic."

The coffer containing the gems was then, upon a sign from the King, delivered to Sir Jocelyn, who, as he received it from the attendant, took a string of pearls from it and gave them to the marshal, requesting they might be offered as largesse to the heralds; and the officer promised that the request should be complied with. Having bestowed a similar boon upon each of the marshals, Mounchensey requested that the coffer might be placed in charge of his esquire—and his directions were complied with.

"Is all concluded?" demanded the King.

"The contest for the prize is necessarily decided," replied the marshal; "but there yet remains the combat with the sword on horseback, if it pleases Sir Jocelyn to engage in it."

"What saith our young knight?" demanded the King. "Is he willing to risk the laurels he hath so fairly won on another, and it may be more dangerous encounter? What he hath already done may fairly entitle him to decline further hazard, if he be so minded."

"I should ill deserve your Majesty's high commendations if I hesitated for a moment," replied Mounchensey; "but so far from feeling disinclination to the combat, I should regret if this opportunity for further distinction were denied me. With your Majesty's gracious permission, I will pray the marshals of the field to let it be proclaimed by the heralds and pursuivants-at-arms that I challenge any true knight to do battle with me with the sword, and on horseback."

"Ye will fight with a blunted blade, Sir Jocelyn," cried the King. "We maun hae nae risk of life. Our dear dog, Steenie, hath had his bonnie craig well-nigh broken, and we will hae nae mair mischief done."

"The laws of the tilt-yard, with which Sir Jocelyn is doubtless well acquainted," observed the marshal, "require that the edge of the sword shall be dull, as your Majesty hath stated, and that no blow shall be dealt with the point of the weapon. These conditions must be strictly observed."

"They shall be," replied Sir Jocelyn; "and I pray you now to do your devoir, and make the proclamation."

On this the marshal and his followers departed; and Sir Jocelyn, bowing reverently to the King, took his way after them, and descending the stairs, leaped on the back of his charger.

Soon after this, and while a sword, blunted in the manner prescribed, was girded round his waist by his esquire, the trumpets were sounded, and the challenge proclaimed by the marshal. It was immediately responded to by a blast from the opposite end of the arena, and a herald, stationed at this point, called out in a loud voice that the challenge was accepted. Again the excitement rose high among the spectators; again all eyes were directed towards Sir Jocelyn; and again many ardent aspirations were uttered by his numerous fair admirers for his success,—though none so fervent as that breathed by Aveline. Sir Jocelyn cast one glance towards that part of the ladies' gallery where he knew her to be placed, and then prepared for his last essay.

As yet, he knew not who was to be his antagonist; but when a knight in sable armour, and with a sable plume upon his helm, rode from beneath the scaffold, he discovered, to his great indignation, that it was Sir Giles Mompesson. After a moment's reflection, he resolved upon a course of action. When the signal for the combat was given by the marshal, and Sir Giles, sword in hand, dashed into the arena, Mounchensey rode towards him, but, without drawing his sword, and raising himself in the saddle, commanded him in a thundering voice to retire.

The impetuosity of Sir Giles's career carried him past his antagonist, but he now wheeled round, and regarded Mounchensey fiercely from beneath the bars of his helmet.

"Retire, said you?" he exclaimed; "not unless you acknowledge yourself defeated. In my turn, I bid you go back to the point you started from, and commence the combat in due form, or I shall hold you vanquished, and compel you to abase your crest."

"Hear me," cried Sir Jocelyn, "and let it be heard by all. I challenged any true knight to the combat, but you answer not to the description. I proclaim you publicly in this place as a false and felon knight, and declare you utterly unworthy of my sword. Back to your starting-place, and if the heralds do their duty, they will hack off your spurs, and drive you with shame from the lists."

"And think you I will tamely brook this insult?" roared Sir Giles; "draw your sword at once, and let it be a mortal combat between us."

"Never," replied Sir Jocelyn, disdainfully. "I will not stoop to the level of your infamy."

"Then stoop to earth," cried Sir Giles, aiming a terrible blow at him with his sword.

If the stroke had taken effect as intended, it would probably have made good Mompesson's threat, but Sir Jocelyn was too wary and too agile even for his powerful assailant. Before the sword could descend, he seized his adversary's wrist, and in another instant possessed himself of the blade. This he accomplished without injury, as the sword was blunted. Still maintaining his grasp of the weapon, he raised himself in his stirrups to give additional force to the blow, and with the pummel of the sword, struck Sir Giles a blow upon the brainpan with such violence, that he dropped from the saddle as if shot.

During this strange scene, not a word had been uttered by the spectators, who looked on with the greatest curiosity, wondering how it would end. As Sir Giles fell from his horse, and lay stretched in perfect insensibility on the ground, a tremendous shout was raised, and Sir Jocelyn was as much applauded as if he had performed an extraordinary feat—so universally was the extortioner detested.

Nor was there any sympathy manifested, when a few moments afterwards Sir Giles was raised from the ground by the pursuivants, and his helmet being removed, exhibited a countenance livid as death, with a stream of blood coursing slowly down the temples. Many would have been well-pleased if he had been killed outright, but the chirurgeon in attendance pronounced that he was only stunned by the blow.

CHAPTER XIV

The private Cabinet of Sir Giles Mompesson

A small room, and rendered yet smaller by the numerous chests and strong boxes encroaching upon its narrow limits. In some cases these boxes are piled, one upon another, till they touch the ceiling. All of them look stout enough, yet many are further strengthened by iron hoops and broad-headed nails, and secured by huge padlocks. The door is cased with iron, within and without, and has a ponderous lock, of which the master of the room always keeps the key, and never trusts it out of his own hand.

This small chamber is the private cabinet of Sir Giles Mompesson.

No one is permitted to enter it without him. Though his myrmidons are fully aware of its existence, and can give a shrewd guess at its contents, only two of them have set foot within it. The two thus privileged are Clement Lanyere and Lupo Vulp. Neither the promoter nor the scrivener are much in the habit of talking over their master's affairs, even with their comrades, and are almost as habitually reserved as he is himself; still, from the few words let fall by them from time to time, the myrmidons have picked up a tolerable notion of the private cabinet, of its hidden cupboards in the walls, its drawers with secret springs; its sliding planks with hollows beneath them; its chests full of treasure, or what is the same thing as treasure, bonds, mortgage-deeds, and other securities; and its carefully concealed hoards of plate, jewels, and other valuables. Some of the least scrupulous among them—such as Staring, Hugh, Cutting Dick, and old Tom Wootton—have often discussed the possibility of secretly visiting it, and making a perquisition of its stores; but they have been hitherto restrained by their fears of their terrible and vindictive master.

On looking into the cabinet we find Sir Giles seated at a table, with a large chest open beside him, from which he has taken for examination sundry yellow parchments, with large seals attached to them. He is now occupied with a deed, on one of the skins of which the plan of an important estate is painted, and on this his attention becomes fixed. His countenance is cadaverous, and its ghastly hue adds to its grimness of expression. A band is tied round his head, and there is an expression of pain in his face, and an air of languor and debility in his manner, very different from what is usual with him. It is plain he has not yet recovered from the effects of the crushing blow he received at the jousts.

Opposite him sits his partner, Sir Francis Mitchell; and the silence that has reigned between them for some minutes is first broken by the old usurer.

"Well, Sir Giles," he inquires, "are you satisfied with your examination of these deeds of the Mounchensey property? The estates have been in the family, as you see, for upwards of two centuries—ever since the reign of Henry IV., in fact—and you have a clear and undisputed title to all the property depicted on that plan—to an old hall with a large park around it, eight miles in circumference, and almost as well stocked with deer as the royal chase of Theobald's; and you have a title to other territorial domains extending from Mounchensey Place and Park to the coast, a matter of twelve miles as the crow flies, Sir Giles,—and including three manors and a score of little villages. Will not these content you? Methinks they should. I' faith, my worthy partner, when I come to reckon up all your possessions, your houses and lands, and your different sources of revenue—the sums owing to you in bond and mortgage—your monopolies and your patents—when I reckon up all these, I say, and add thereunto the wealth hoarded in this cabinet, which you have not placed out at usance—I do not hesitate to set you down as one of the richest of my acquaintance. There be few whose revenue is so large as yours, Sir Giles. 'Tis strange, though I have had the same chance as yourself of making money, I have not a hundredth part of your wealth."

"Not a whit strange," replied Sir Giles, laying down the deed and regarding his partner somewhat contemptuously. "I waste not what I acquire. I have passions as well as yourself, Sir Francis; but I keep them under subjection. I drink not—I riot not—I shun all idle company. I care not for outward show, or for the vanities of dress. I have only one passion which I indulge,—Revenge. You are a slave to sensuality, and pamper your lusts at any cost. Let a fair woman please your eye, and she must be bought, be the price what it may. No court prodigal was ever more licentious or extravagant than you are."

"Sir Giles! Sir Giles! I pray you, spare me. My enemies could not report worse of me."

"Nay, your enemies would say that your extravagance is your sole merit, and that therein you are better than I," rejoined Sir Giles, with a sardonic laugh. "But I rejoice to think I am free from all such weaknesses. The veriest enchantress could not tempt me. I am proof against all female seductions. Think you the damsel lives who could induce me to give for her half these broad lands in Norfolk—this ancient hall, and its wide-spread domains? I trow not."

"Perchance I have given too much," cried the old usurer, eagerly; "if so, it is not too late to amend our contract. Between us, there should be fair dealing, Sir Giles."

"There is none other than fair dealing on my part," replied the extortioner sternly; "and the terms of our agreement cannot be departed from. What I have just said applies to your general mode of life; but you have better reason for your conduct in this instance than is usual with you, since you combine the gratification of revenge with the indulgence of your other passions. You obtain a fair young bride, and at the same time deprive the person whom you hate most of all others, of the mistress of his affections. This is as it should be. Vengeance cannot be too dearly purchased, and the more refined the vengeance, the higher must necessarily be the price paid for it. In no way can you so cruelly injure this detested Mounchensey, as by robbing him of his mistress. And the blow dealt by you, shall be followed by others not less severe on my part."

"Ay, ay, Sir Giles, you have to wipe out the outrage he inflicted upon you in the tilt-yard. As I am a true gentleman, that was worse than the indignity I endured from him in the court-yard of the palace. It must be confessed that the villain hath a powerful hand as well as a sharp tongue, and follows up his bitter words by bold deeds. The stroke he dealt you with his sword was like a blow from a sledge hammer, Sir Giles. He felled you from your horse as a butcher felleth an ox; and, in good truth, I at first thought the ox's fate had been yours, and that you would never rise again. Your helmet was dinted in as if by a great shot. And for twelve hours and upwards you were senseless and speechless;—But thanks to my care and the skill of Luke Hatton the apothecary who tended you, you have been brought round. After such treatment, I cannot wonder that you are eager for revenge upon Sir Jocelyn. How will you deal with him Sir Giles? How will you deal with him?"

"I will hurl him from the proud position he now holds," replied the other, "and immure him in the Fleet."

"While I revel in the bliss he panted to enjoy," cried the old usurer, chuckling. "Take it altogether, 'tis the sweetest scheme we ever planned, and the most promising, Sir Giles! But when am I to claim Aveline? when shall I make her mine?"

"You shall claim her to-morrow, and wed her as soon after as you list."

"Nay, there shall be no delay on my part, Sir Giles. I am all impatience. When such a dainty repast is spread out before me, I am not likely to be a laggard. But now, to the all-important point on which the whole affair hinges! How am I to assert my claim to her hand—how enforce it when made? Explain that to me, Sir Giles, I beseech you."

"Readily," replied the extortioner. "But before doing so let me give you a piece of information which will surprise you, and which will show you that my tenure of this great Norfolk property is not quite so secure as you suppose it. You are aware that Sir Ferdinando Mounchensey had a younger brother, Osmond—"

"Who disappeared when very young, and died, it was concluded," interrupted Sir Francis, "for he was never heard of more. And it was lucky for us he did so die, or he might have proved a serious obstacle to our seizure of these estates, for I remember it being stated at the time, by one of the judges, that had he been living, he might have procured a reversal of the Star-Chamber sentence upon Sir Ferdinando in his favour."

"Precisely so, and that judge's opinion was correct," said Sir Giles. "Now listen to me, Sir Francis. It is quite true that Osmond Mounchensey quitted his home when very young, owing to some family quarrel; but it is not true that he died. On the contrary, I have recently ascertained, beyond a doubt, that he is still alive. Hitherto, I have failed in tracing him out, though I have got a clue to him; but he has enveloped himself in so much mystery that he is difficult of detection. Yet I trust to succeed ere long; and my great business will be to prevent his re-appearance, which would be fraught with danger to us both. I have a scheme on foot in reference to him which will answer more than one purpose. You will learn it anon. And now, to give you the explanation you require in respect to Aveline."

And he stamped upon the floor.

"You are not about to invoke a spirit of darkness to our councils?" said Sir Francis, staring at him in astonishment and alarm.

"You will see," rejoined the extortioner with a grim smile.

After a brief pause, the door was almost noiselessly opened, and Clement Lanyere entered the chamber.

"What has Lanyere to do with the matter?" cried Sir Francis, suspiciously regarding the promoter, who was without his mask.

"You will hear," replied Sir Giles. "Be pleased to inform Sir Francis, good Lanyere, how you come to be in a position to demand the hand of fair Mistress Aveline Calveley?"

"He demand it! I understand you not, Sir Giles!" exclaimed the old usurer.

"Let him speak, I pray you, Sir Francis," returned the other. "You will the sooner learn what you desire to know."

CHAPTER XV

Clement Lanyere's Story

"My tale shall be briefly told," said Lanyere. "You are aware, Sir Francis, that in the pursuit of my avocation I am often led into the most dangerous quarters of the metropolis, and at hours when the peril to any honest man is doubled. Adventures have not unfrequently occurred to me when so circumstanced, and I have been indebted to my right hand and my good sword for deliverance from many a desperate risk. Late one night, I chanced to be in the neighbourhood of Whitefriars, in a place called the Wilderness, when, hearing cries for help, accompanied by the clash of steel, I rushed towards a narrow court, whence the clatter and vociferations resounded, and perceived by the light of the moon, which fortunately happened to be shining brightly at the time, one man engaged with four others, who were evidently bent upon cutting his throat in order to take his purse. He defended himself gallantly, but the odds were too great, and he must have been speedily slain—for the villains swore with great oaths they would murder him if he continued to resist them—if I had not come to the rescue. I arrived just in time. They were pressing him hard. I struck down the point of a rapier which was within an inch of his breast—gave the swashbuckler who carried it a riposta he did not expect, and sent him off bowling—and then addressed myself to the others with such good effect, that in a brief space the stranger and I were alone together. I had been slightly wounded in the fray; but I thought nothing of it—a mere scratch. It seemed something more to the gentleman I had preserved. He expressed great concern for me, and bound his handkerchief round my arm. I was about to depart, but he detained me to renew his professions of gratitude for the service I had rendered him, and his earnest wish that he might be able to requite me. From his discourse, and from the texts of Scripture he mixed up with it, I knew him to be a Puritan; and I might have supposed him to be a preacher of the Gospel, had he not carried a sword, and borne himself so manfully in the encounter. However, he left me no doubt on the subject, for he told me he was named Hugh Calveley, and that he had served in the wars with more honour to himself than profit. He added, that if the knaves had succeeded in their design, and robbed and slain him, they would have deprived his daughter of her sole protector; and, indeed, of all means of subsistence, since the little they had would be lost with him. On hearing this, a thought struck me, and I said to him—'You have expressed an earnest desire to requite the service I have just been fortunate enough to render you, and as I am well assured your professions are not idly made, I shall not hesitate to proffer a request to you.' 'Ask what you will; if I have it to give, it shall be yours,' he replied. 'You make that promise solemnly, and before heaven?' I said. 'I make it solemnly,' he replied. 'And to prove to you that I mean it to be binding upon me, I will confirm it by an oath upon the Bible.' And as he spoke he took the sacred volume from his doublet, and reverently kissed it. Then I said to him—'Sir, you have told me you have a daughter, but you have not told me whether she is marriageable or not?' He started at the question, and answered somewhat sternly. 'My daughter has arrived at womanhood. But wherefore the inquiry? Do you seek her hand in marriage?' 'If I did so, would you refuse her to me?' A pause ensued, during which I observed he was struggling with deep emotion, but he replied at last, 'I could not do so after my solemn promise to you; but I pray you not to make the demand.' I then said to him: 'Sir, you cannot lay any restrictions upon me. I shall exact fulfilment of your promise. Your daughter must be mine.' Again he seemed to be torn by emotion, and to meditate a refusal; but after a while he suppressed his feelings, and replied. 'My word is plighted. She shall be yours.—Ay, though it cost me my life, she shall be yours.' He then inquired my name and station, and I gave him a different name from that by which I am known; in fact, I adopted one which chanced to be familiar to him, and which instantly changed his feelings towards me into those of warmest friendship. As you may well suppose, I did not think fit to reveal my odious profession, and though I was unmasked, I contrived so to muffle my hateful visage with my cloak, that it was in a great degree concealed from him. After this, I told him that I had no intention of pressing my demand immediately; that I would take my own means of seeing his daughter without her being conscious of my presence; and that I would not intrude upon her in any way without his sanction. I used some other arguments, which seemed perfectly to satisfy him, and we separated, he having previously acquainted me that he lived at Tottenham. Not many days elapsed before I found an opportunity of viewing his daughter, and I found her exquisitely beautiful. I had indeed gained a prize; and I resolved that no entreaties on his part, or on hers, should induce me to abandon my claim. I took care not to be seen by her, being sensible that any impression I might make would be prejudicial to me; and I subsequently learnt from her father that he had not disclosed to her the promise he had been rash enough to make to me. I had an interview with him—the third and last that ever took place between us—on the morning of the day on which he made an attempt upon the life of the King. I rode over to Tottenham, and arrived there before daybreak. My coming was expected, and he himself admitted me by a private door into his garden, and thence into the house. I perceived that his mind was much disturbed, and he told me he had passed the whole night in prayer. Without acquainting me with his desperate design, I gathered from what he said, that he meditated some fearful act, and that he considered his own life in great jeopardy. If he fell, and he anticipated he should fall, he committed his daughter to my care; and he gave me a written injunction, wherein, as you will find, his blessing is bestowed upon her for obedience to him, and his curse laid upon her in the event of a breach of duty; commanding her, by all her hopes of happiness hereafter, to fulfil the solemn promise he had made me—provided I should claim her hand within a twelvemonth of his death. The unfortunate man, as you know, died within two days of that interview, having, as I have since ascertained, reiterated the same solemn charge, and in terms equally impressive, to his daughter."